Snatches, Snippets, and Other Assorted Pieces
by Old English Game
Summary: Short pieces based on randomly generated words.
1. Party

**Party**

Hogan stood there, his dress uniform uncomfortably stiff (too much starch), forcing awkward smiles at whatever general or lady or whoever walked by him.

Why had Klink had to invite him to this party? Why had he even had to have this party? It certainly wasn't because of any effort on Hogan's part, this was another one of his desperate attempts to make general. All of the high ranks here were washouts who had managed to score positions in pointless offices in backwater towns, and the ladies on their arms looked bored enough they might have actually outdone Hogan, who had been trying for the last twenty minutes to tear the tiniest piece possible off of the paper napkin in his hands.

There wasn't any reconnaissance to be done or important information to be photographed and/or stolen, none of these guys were important enough, and besides which the heroes had most of their intel already. So Hogan was undeniably bored out of his skull, but every five minutes or so Klink would try to drag him into a conversation, thus rendering it completely impossible for him to leave. He couldn't make up an excuse about it getting late either, it wasn't even eight thirty.

"Hello, Colonel Hogan," Helga came over, smiling sympathetically at him, "You look like you're having fun."

"Oh, yes, absolutely," Hogan looked around, "Gotta love isolating yourself in a corner while your brain runs out your nose."

She giggled, "I suppose it could be worse."

"The only thing worse would be a Gestapo interrogation cell," Hogan quipped, letting another handful of napkin pieces flutter to the floor.

"I'll give you that," She said, "Klink's busy buttering up General Friedhoff. Care for an evening stroll?"

Hogan looked up and grinned, "I think this evening has taken a turn for the better," He offered his arm and she took it, and they scurried out before they were caught.

**Edit! Fixed the formatting.**

**I hope y'all like it, I've seen theses before, where people pick a random word and write a piece from it.**

**Thanks for reading :)**

**-Caroline**


	2. Scare

**Scare**

Blast it, he should have known he'd lose the git someday in these ruddy trees. They were so tall and black and Louis was so short and also dressed in black, and besides which Newkirk wasn't sure exactly when he'd lost him.

"LeBeau!" He hissed into the woods. Of all the nights to get separated, when the Gestapo would be crawling all over the place as soon as that train blew up in - he glanced at his watch - ten minutes, "Louis, you thick bugger, where'd you get too!" He strode back the way he'd come, glaring into the dense shadows.

Shoot, when was the last time they'd spoken? Had it been ten minutes back, or two hours? LeBeau could be anywhere.

"Louis!" He hissed again.

The woods were awful dark. The shadows were so much different from those in London's East End. They worked great for hiding from the Krauts. They weren't supposed to snatch his friends away, "LeBeau!"

"I'm right here, mon pote, no need to wake all of Germany!" Suddenly he was there, and Newkirk thought his brain was going to explode from the relief, "I just dropped my gun, and it took me a moment to find it."

Newkirk hid his sigh of relief under an exasperated groan, "Don't disappear like that, Louis! You know you're too short to keep track of in this ruddy jungle."

"Short?! You may have more height on you, but you sure don't use it for anything!" And they were back off, throwing the kinds of words at each other that didn't need translation.

A few minutes later, the pair didn't even stop when the train went up in bright colors.

**Okay, I'm 99.9 percent sure I fixed the formatting. I hope y'all like it!**


	3. Impossible

**Impossible**

"I'll tell you," Newkirk said to the flyer, taking a drag on his cigarette, "This whole bloody thing's impossible. We're doing it, but it's impossible, and I swear we've managed to carve ourselves our own corner of existence where logic doesn't apply. Because the whole thing - all of this," He waved his cigarette about vaguely, almost jabbing the poor guy in the eye, "Sorry - but everything. It's impossible. And yet here you and I are, twenty- something feet underground, and the only thing sitting between you and getting home is the busted foot to a lousy sewing machine."


	4. Honor

**Honor**

They buried him in the woods back behind Oskar Schnitzer's farm at first. Stripped him of anything identifying - dog tags, wallet, wedding ring - and wrapped his body in a simple gray blanket. They brought him to the underground agent's home in the back of a borrowed car from the motorpool, and barely had time for a short prayer before they had to hurry back, leaving Oskar Schnitzer on his own to shovel the dirt back and hide the disturbed earth under a rotted log.

Colonel Hogan stood in his place in role call, squinting in the rising sun, paying half an ear to Klink's speech in case something important slipped. The rough feel of the blanket still tingled on his hands.

After the war, he decided. After the war the man would get the funeral he deserved.


	5. Leg

**Leg**

The four escaped prisoners looked about them in utter disbelief.

Hogan grinned. He couldn't help it, every time they brought in new flyers or escapees the look of dumb awe on their face was always the same.

When the four had stopped gawking, and they set about getting processed to go on their way, Hogan and the leader of the group, a burly lieutenant, sat down with a pot of coffee and a map between them.

"We started here, in Italy," The lieutenant spoke with a southern drawl that was so thick it was almost comical, "We hitched a ride on a train car and ended up in Lions."

"_Lyons!"_ LeBeau exclaimed, his expression flaring with typical French pride.

The lieutenant actually looked daunted, "Sorry - _Lyons_ \- but then since none of us spoke French we accidentally ended up heading back towards Italy, but lucky for us this little hamlet - about here - was on our side and set us on the right path for Switzerland."

One of his men snorted, "Wish we'd made it."

"Yeah," The lieutenant blushed, "We kind of took a wrong turn and ended up in Munich. And from there, we hopped all over around Germany until finally some fella saw through Johnny's high-school German, but luckily he was on the right side and got us here."

"Well," Hogan grinned, "The good news is, it's only a short jaunt from here to the coast where you'll be picked up by submarine. The last leg of the journey."

At this, the other three immediately turned their attention to the conversation.

"What'd you say?" One asked, unbelieving.

"The last leg of the journey," The lieutenant repeated with a crooked smile, "We're almost home."


	6. Robin

**Robin**

There was a flock of them, in the center of the compound, shuffling around in the dirt.

"That's funny," Newkirk sighed, "They're the only ones what're allowed to leave but they're staying."

"What kinda bird you think it is?" Carter tilted his head to one side and squinted.

"A robin," LeBeau and Newkirk said at the same time.

Carter frowned, "But it couldn't be. Robins are American."

The two Europeans shared a haughty tut-tut and exchanged looks of disapproval.

"That's because theses are European robins, Carter," Newkirk said, "They're the real robins. Your robins are just the American robins."

"But what's the difference?" Carter asked, "I mean, besides that European Robins are from Europe and regular robins aren't."

"Regular robins!" Newkirk and LeBeau exclaimed in matching horrified tones.

"I'll have you know our robins have every right to the simple "robin" title," Newkirk said, "If a whole flock of American robins were to walk in, we wouldn't call the American ones regular "robin" and the European ones European, you'd call the European ones "robin" and the American ones ugly robins, is what you'd do."

"American robins aren't ugly!" Carter protested, "Have you ever even seen an American robin before?"

"Sure," Newkirk smirked, "I dated an American named Robin. Cor, she was somethin'," He shuddered.

"Newkirrrrrrrrrk," Carter moaned, "Well, why are they prettier? Do you think they're pretty?"

Newkirk looked back on the flock and shrugged, "I think so - but, then again, I've always had a soft spot for birds."


	7. Vein

**Vein**

"What if we found gold down here?" Carter asked suddenly.

Newkirk jumped, "Gosh, Andrew, it was so blissfully quiet."

"But what if we did?" Carter was unfazed by the icy response from his friend, who was mostly tired of being dirty, tired of being underground, tired of digging, tired, and tired of being tired, "That's be somethin', wouldn't it?"

"Wouldn't it," Newkirk wished he owned a pair of earplugs. How dangerous would it be to shove mud into his ears? There was certainly plenty of it down here.

"I guess we'd split it up - no, wait, it'd go to London. Darn. I bet there'd be a little extra in our backpay, though! What would you spend it on?"

A pair of earplugs. Or a house way back in the highlands. He could marry a shepherd's daughter and raise those super-wooly sheep for the rest of his life. What were those called again? Icelandic? No, that wasn't it. Oh, well.

"I'd get a motorcycle," Carter said, "A new one. With those fancy chrome wheels. It'd be fun, don't you think?"

"A step up from your pony rides," Newkirk said mundanely.

"Yeah, no kidding. Or maybe I could get a big horse. Maybe a white stallion, like the Lone Ranger."

Ah, the Lone Ranger. He'd heard more than he wanted to about the Lone Ranger from pretty much every American in camp. The bloke didn't even sound that wonderful. Who hid their identity jut by covering half their face with a scrap of cloth? And silver bullets - that had to get expensive. Goodness gracious.

But he'd long since given up saying "What's so great about the bloody Lone Ranger anyway?", so he ignored it, jamming his shovel into the dirt once more.

"You know, Newkirk?" Carter paused to prop himself up on the shovel and look at his friend, "I hope you can come to America after the war, to visit. Or I'll go to London. I hope we see each other after the war."

"Uh-huh," Newkirk said.

"'Cuz' you're a pretty good friend."

Oh.

"Shoot, Andrew," Newkirk muttered, flinging the dirt to the side, "You don't need to start gettin' all sentimental."


	8. Hand

It was cold. It was really, really, cold.

LeBeau buried his face deeper into his scarf and squeezed Carter's hand. When the American squeezed back he knew that neither of them had frozen to death. Yet.

He hated German winters.

"L-Louis?" Carter was pressed right up against him but he was still hard to hear over the howling of the wind, "I think-k that'ssss Schnitzer's farm up-up-up there."

LeBeau squinted through the pelting sleet at the little glowing patches and nodded, "_Oui."_ He doubted Carter could hear him, but it didn't matter.

Suddenly his toe hit against something and white pain shot up his leg.

He didn't even realize he'd fallen, the snow was almost up to his knees anyways, until he felt a tug on his hand, "Come on, LeBeau."

He grunted and tried to pick up his legs. They didn't want to go.

A pair of hands picked him up under his shoulders and hauled him out of the snow, and set him down on the surface.

LeBeau wanted to bury himself underneath Carter's shearling coat, but forced the thought out of his head. Probably be all smelly anyways. And he'd have to share with the mouse.

They kept going.

"Louis!" Carter suddenly exclaimed, "I see people! I think it's Oskar!"

"Sch-Sch-Schnitzer?" LeBeau had given up trying to keep his eyes on the house, he trusted Carter to do that, and had made Carter his shield from the wind.

"Come on!" Carter pulled him on faster and LeBeau let himself be dragged along, his feet hardly cooperating.

"Who are you?" Another voice cut in and he looked up.

"Schnitzer!" Carter exclaimed, "It's us. Carter an' LeBeau. C-c-c-can we come innnn?"

He heard a laugh, and then someone had him by the shoulders again.

The next thing he knew there was a solid surface under his feet, and then he was indoors.

Only then did he lift his face out of his scarf, and let himself be set in front of the fire. It was roaring.

"Hey M-Max!" He heard Carter greet, "What're you doing here?"

"I was visiting Oskar when it started to snow," The grocer explained, peeling LeBeau's coat off of him, "I'll get some blankets. You get your shoes off."

Gratefully, LeBeau peeled his shoes and socks off with shaking, clammy hands, and set them next to the fire.

Then he looked at Carter, and realized he couldn't speak because his teeth were chattering so badly.

Carter grinned, "You look kinda pale, LeBeau."

LeBeau just nodded and Carter reached for his hands.

As he pulled his gloves off LeBeau managed to ask, "How come you're s-ss-ssso much warmer?"

"I think 'cuz' you're smaller," Carter took LeBeau's hands in his and rubbed them together.

"I should g-get warm quick-ker." He was slowly warming up.

"But you got cold faster. Besides, I'm from North Dakota. Thanks, Max." Carter draped a blanket around LeBeau's shoulders, "You feelin' better yet?"

LeBeau nodded dumbly.

"Good." Carter said, and then looked up at Max, "We gotta radio Colonel Hogan. He's probably worried about us."

Max nodded, "Oskar's already warming up the radio. I put the water on the stove, too. How is LeBeau?"

"His color's coming back," Carter said, relieved, "Boy, it's sure good we found you guys! We woulda frozen otherwise. It doesn't even get this cold in Bullfrog. Well, it would, sometimes, but not very often, and it never lasted very long."

LeBeau paid half an ear to Carter's ramblings, shifting closer to the fire. He looked down at his hands. They were still white, but they'd stopped shaking, and he could feel his fingers again. They hurt.

But that was better than no fingers at all, he reasoned.

He sank back against the hearth, relishing the warmth from the stones. They'd be here a while. If not because of the storm, then André's talking.

He let his eyes drift shut.

**Author's note: It isn't very good but I'm itching to write ****_something_**** again. I'm still stuck on the MSEs. I'm stuck on Ginger Tea. I'm stuck on my other WIPs. I'm bored out of my skull.**


End file.
